Winterfell's Daughter
by Egleriel
Summary: Sansa is the heir to Winterfell, but before she can claim her seat, the Queen must find her a suitable southron husband.
1. Winterfell's Daughter

_This two-shot is born of writer's block and rugby fanaticism. Writer's block, because I have another fic on the go and two essays due, but none of them seems to be flowing right now. Rugby, because the Ireland game's at 6 and the England game at 8, and after South Park it seemed pointless going to bed for three hours..._

* * *

><p>Sansa Stark was a liability.<p>

One wouldn't know it, to look at her: a bright beauty just gone five-and-ten, pleasant and polite - though he detected a deep reserve in the girl, as icy and impregnable as Winterfell itself. Not that she'd caused any trouble. From the day Brienne brought her to court, she'd given every illusion of passivity, even docility. Yet those delicate hands had the power to tear apart the fragile peace he'd built against the odds.

"My lord Regent," said Ser Balon. "The Queen will see you now."

He nodded and stepped through; Hoster Blackwood followed in his wake, bearing the fatal parchment.

The chambers were decorated as exotically as the rest of the royal apartments, all sprays of flowers and tables topped with intricate mosaics. Her time in hotter climes had accustomed the young queen to doing business out of doors; though winter still gripped the realm, she broke her fast on the veranda whenever the weather permitted. He saw her in profile, framed by the blue sky and a budding bower, her hair shining like beaten gold in the morning sunlight: the very image of Cersei at twelve. There the comparisons ended, and for that Jaime thanked the gods every day.

She turned at his approach, revealing the dreadful scar that marred her pretty face. "Ser Jaime," smiled Queen Myrcella.

Trystane echoed her. A king consort, not a king regnant; the Dornish were more comfortable with the concept than the rest of the realm, but it had not caused a problem yet. He was a gentle boy, this Trystane Martell; not like to stir to rebellion. The danger lay with his retinue: his bastard cousins, Lady Nym and Lady Tyene, who attended him always. They were known as Sand Snakes in Sunspear, and Jaime was ever mindful of the sort of poison they could pour in a boy's ear.

"Your Grace," he addressed his daughter, "I bring news from the North."

"Oh." Her brow furrowed and she set down her bread and jam. "The lords have made demands, at last?"

"Yes, your grace." He beckoned, and Hos lurched forward awkwardly. "Would you like to see it yourself?"

"If you think it wise," said Myrcella gracefully, dabbing at her hands with a linen napkin. "Tallhart, Glover, Karstark, Ryswell, Cerwyn, Dustin ... and a little drawing of a bear attacking a giant," she said, perplexed. "Are those meant to be marks?"

"Houses Mormont and Umber, I should think," said Jaime. Northmen could be tiresome.

"What of White Harbor, and the mountain clans?"

Jaime was privately pleased that she'd noted their absence. She didn't have the instinct for intrigue he might have hoped for, but she was learning.

"I don't know, your grace. This is a bold demand, and they have no prospect of improving their position."

"It's almost treason," said Myrcella lightly. She pushed the paper toward Trystane, who was craning his neck to read upside-down. She nibbled at her bread once again. "We cannot give them Lady Sansa. If they withhold their fealty now, who's to say they won't do so with a Stark in Winterfell? They might try to make her Queen in the North, and wed her to someone who can give them swords, now she's widowed. I like Lady Sansa; I'd rather not have to execute her."

Jaime heard the pain in her voice. She'd liked Aegon, too. Jaime thought she'd conceived a certain regard for him, and she'd opted to watch his beheading from a high balcony, so far above the courtyard that her eyes might as easily have been shut as directed downwards. A noble boy, but Jaime could not suffer any pretenders to threaten his daughter's throne - nor her marriage to the Dornish prince. He'd known it was hard on her though, new-come to the throne and still grieving for Tommen, and she'd made him proud.

"Did you see the rune and the twin Hs? They have the Vale on their side."

Trystane looked at him imploringly. "Do you think they'd really rise up again?"

Jaime hesitated. "What do _you _think, your grace?"

Myrcella answered for him. "The men of the Vale are hungry for glory, but the men of the North have already tasted battle. They do not want war, but they do not want another cruel overlord. Lord Bolton is a valuable hostage, but not a fair trade for Lady Sansa. We must refuse these terms, but beyond that..."

"It's a difficult situation, your grace," said Jaime approvingly. "I will leave you to your breakfast; think on this, and we can discuss it later."

"Thank you, Ser Jaime," said Myrcella softly, and Jaime took his leave. It made no matter what she decided, in truth: as in all things, she deferred to his judgement. That was something he would have to wean her away from, but for now it had its uses.

The key was to attenuate Sansa's utility to the northmen: if she could be brought to heel, made loyal to the crown, then she would make a perfect liege lady for the North. Northmen's knees turned to rubber when faced with a Stark, and despite her tender years Jaime had some confidence in her capacity to rule: he'd caught himself wishing Myrcella had a little of her insight and decision.

To send her north, and yet keep her bound to King's Landing.

* * *

><p>"I have no wish to marry again, ser," said Sansa firmly.<p>

"Not even for Winterfell?"

The little intake of breath was subtle, but it was all the answer Jaime needed. All the same, he hesitated to give her a chance to speak, and when no answer was forthcoming he continued.

"Your reluctance is understandable, Sansa; my brother can't have been an easy spouse to live with. But let me be clear with you. It is the health of the realm that concerns me, not your happiness. If none of my choices are acceptable to you, I won't marry you off against your will - I'm not a monster, but nor am I a fool. Unwed, I will not allow you to leave King's Landing, or indeed this tower. You are a ward of the Crown and you remain here at the Queen's pleasure."

Sansa nodded slowly. A prisoner in truth; they both knew it. She'd trod this road before.

"You want to see Winterfell again, don't you?" said Jaime, more gently.

"Yes," she said, "More than anything, even ruined."

"It would be yours to rebuild. Along with the North," he added.

Sansa fixed him with her gaze. There was an inscrutable look in those blue eyes. "You would make me the Stark in Winterfell," she said softly.

"The North needs new lords," sniffed Jaime. "Who better than the old?"

"And I must have a _loyal_ husband, not a rebel northerner, so you will not send me unwed. Do you think Greatjon Umber and the rest will accept a southron lord in Winterfell?"

"Not any southron lord, but they will accept the right man, provided he isn't a Lannister. Someone who commands their respect, if not their love. But then, isn't that why we're sending you?"

* * *

><p>Jaime's phantom fingers tingled and burned as he watched the men training in the yard. Addam Marbrand spun and slashed, knocking Sebaston Foote to the ground. Jaime inwardly cursed the day he'd raised them to the Queensguard. Both were fine knights and good commanders, and either would have made a fine husband for Sansa Stark. Leaders of men, and <em>true knights<em>. They'd given up their lands and titles to serve Myrcella, and with them their right to wed.

He'd decided that a Westerman would be best, loyal to House Lannister as well as the crown. Those few he deemed reliable were either married or sworn to the Queensguard. _They've all taken vows of some sort_, thought Jaime bitterly. _Except..._

Sandor Clegane preferred his olive-green cloak and battered armour to the white finery of the Queensguard. He'd never taken the oath, any more than he'd taken one for Joffrey, but he'd been every bit as devoted and diligent as the other six. Perhaps moreso, for the man apparently claimed any extra shifts when the other men requested leave. He seemed to have nothing in his life beyond the job.

It was hardly surprising. Most of the realm believed the Hound to be responsible for the massacre at Saltpans two years ago, though Jaime knew the truth. Brienne had found _him_ too, not far from Saltpans itself. Jaime was hazy on the details, but he was dimly aware that Clegane had displayed some valour on Sansa's part while they travelled from Saltpans to King's Landing, on the strength of which Brienne had urged him to take Clegane back into his service. And with Jaime acting as regent, the Queensguard had been a man short.

_I couldn't inflict _that_ on the poor girl_, he thought, watching as the Hound hacked furiously at one of the Fossoways. The man gave ground under a flurry of blows, until Clegane lurched suddenly; the momentary loss of composure was opportunity enough for the smaller knight to swing at the gap in Clegane's pauldrons. Jaime was relieved to see him bring his sword up just in time and continue the fight with renewed anger and vigour, battering Fossoway into a quick submission.

It was sad to see, in a way. Before the war, Jaime would have ranked the Hound second only to himself in terms of general ability, and while he wasn't nearly as broken as Jaime, he would never be quite the same. He was still formidable, but to an eye as practiced and familiar as Jaime's, the difference was obvious. Jaime had offered him his family's lands before the white cloak, but Clegane hadn't been interested. Much of the rage had gone out of him during the war, leaving a sad, damaged man who spent his hours off trying to drink himself to death. It hadn't dented his competence. Jaime had seen him in his cups a few times, haunting the ruins of the Tower of the Hand, lurking by the Serpentine and the godswood, waiting in vain for some sign that never seemed to come. A pathetic sight.

His gaze flicked to Marbrand and Foote again. On second thought, maybe neither of them was such an ideal choice. Jaime had grown up with Ser Addam and trusted him enough to appoint him Acting Lord Commander until Myrcella came of age, yet he and Foote had both seen their family's lands fall to the Young Wolf. How would they take to a life in the North, living among the men who'd burned their towns and captured their castles?

Clegane, though. He had no cause to hate the North, no lingering loyalties. Nowhere else to go. And Jaime wouldn't need to beseech the High Septon to release him from sacred vows. He'd deserted Joff and House Lannister during the war, but he'd come crawling back in the end, hadn't he? Maybe he'd even _like_ the North, with its blunt speech and grim Old Gods. _No knights north of the Neck_, thought Jaime.

He wasn't entirely unknown to Sansa either, though Jaime couldn't imagine she had much liking for him. Clegane swore he'd never beaten her for Joff, but he'd still been part of that corrupt Kingsguard. Even now, he was often assigned to escort her from place to place and Jaime had seen him looming over Myrcella's tea parties and sewing circles, at which Sansa was always present. Brienne made no complaints about how they'd got along on the road; she described the Hound as a silent, brooding man, very much the outsider in their party. He'd terrified Brienne's squire, and he wouldn't be trifled with lightly by the northmen either. Jaime hadn't known him to be stirred by the sort of fervency that might stir another man to the North's cause at the expense of Myrcella's.

But he was lower-born than Jaime would have liked; Clegane's father had been a knight, not a lord. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd ever stood a vigil himself, but he was as like to do that as he was to become a septon. _Still,_ he thought with some regret, _maybe it would taint the Stark girl a little in the eyes of her bannermen. Not enough to make them raise the Boltons again, but enough to dull some of that reverence of House Stark._

* * *

><p>He'd expected to be able to wring Myrcella's reluctant acceptance for the scheme, for all that the Sand Snakes fumed in the background. She'd even consented to the suggestion of Sandor Clegane, provided Lady Sansa was willing. 'Willing' was a relative term, of course. Jaime didn't think for a moment that the Hound was the sort of man Sansa Stark would choose for herself, but there was a chance she would tolerate him in exchange for her inheritance.<p>

He _hadn't _expected Sansa's reaction. He expressed the Queen's approval for his plans in rather more effusive terms than Myrcella might have, and he named his first candidate. She looked dumbfounded.

"The _Hound_?" she asked, incredulous. "You want me to marry the Hound? Does he know about this?"

"If it is not to your liking, my lady, there are other names I might suggest." _When I've thought of them, that is._ "Take as much time as you need to consider."

Sansa nodded. Her face was blank as she stared into her lap. Jaime rose to go. "No need, ser," said Sansa, touching his golden hand. There was no feeling in those fingers, but the vibration rang through to his stump. "I accept."

Stoic hope brought an extra radiance to her fair features. _She's a brave girl,_ thought Jaime; _it seems a waste to wed her to the likes of Sandor Clegane. _He supposed worse matches had been made for smaller prizes than Winterfell, but the image of the Hound next to the beautiful Lady Stark was so queer it gave him pause.

* * *

><p>"You wed her to the Imp first time. Was I the only one ugly enough to come next?"<p>

"I have my reasons," said Jaime. "Your looks aren't one of them."

The Hound's lip curled, but he said nothing. Jaime kept his eyes on him. He was breathing hard, that ruined face marred further by a snarl. He'd leapt from his chair with such force that a leg had cracked, and the broken remnants lay on the floor behind him, spoiling the timeless serenity of the White Room. _Others take me, what am I doing?_

"Shall I take this to mean that you refuse? Lady Sansa has already accepted. Straight away, in fact." The Hound froze. _Ah. "_Believe me, I was as shocked as you."

"By what right, Kingslayer?" Clegane barked, but there was uncertainty there now. He was speaking at random: a man buying himself time to think. "She's a ward of the Crown, true enough, but I'm a man of the Queensguard. I'm not some hostage at your disposal."

Jaime let the 'Kingslayer' slide. "Queensguard you may be, but you haven't sworn not to marry and you are still a subject of the Iron Throne. As regent I have a right to arrange matches among the Queen's subjects, and luckily for you, I'm offering you a choice. I could command this, but I want someone who is willing." Jaime settled in his chair and turned his attention to the White Book. He glanced up at Clegane. "It makes no matter. I will send word of your refusal to Lady Sansa. You may return to your duties."

Sandor Clegane made a strangled noise in his throat. "You said I would have to leave the Queensguard in time," he said. "I'll have to go when Queen Myrcella comes into her majority."

"You are not a knight, Clegane," said Jaime absently, dipping his pen into a bottle of maester's ink. He used his golden hand to drag a piece of parchment nearer. "By right, you should never have been allowed that white cloak, but you seemed the best man for the job for now. Your appointment is temporary."

He swallowed, but kept his obvious anxiety out of his voice. "How soon would want us to marry?"

Jaime looked up. Men could be so predictable sometimes. It bored him immensely. "I wouldn't wait four years, if that's what you're asking," he said. "The Lady Sansa must be wed as soon as possible. You would be released from the Queensguard, if you accept." He returned to the parchment. "You need not decide now. Sleep on it, if you must, but I will need an answer."

The Hound took a deep breath. "I'll do it."

Jaime had already written as much in his note to Sansa, along with a promise to see to all necessary arrangements. He thought it would be cruel to ask Clegane to deliver it, but he did so anyway.


	2. Winterfell's Betrothed

His hands shook. He wondered if he ought to dress in something finer, but by the time it crossed his mind, he was too close to her bedchamber to turn back. _What is she thinking? What's the Kingslayer thinking?_ His heart pounded. He wondered at the odds of this being some monstrous jape, but it didn't seem like Jaime Kingslayer to waste time humiliating him. And yet, surely they were more like to kick a dog than feed it from the table?

King's Landing had been a torment. _She _was the stupid reason he stayed; if he took the keep that had once been his brother's, he'd have to leave court. At least here, he could see her, even if his little bird was in a glass case and far out of the reach of his grubby fingers. He kept his distance and his silence and his eyes on her, even when it meant watching her flirt with the courtiers. The Tyrell boy's suit had nearly killed him, for Sandor had been sure it would be successful: a true lord for his true lady.

He leapt at any shift that gave him a chance of bumping into her, and when he watched her out of the corner of his eye he could almost fancy that she was glancing at him, even though he knew it was only instinct: she only looked because some part of her sensed his illicit gaze, like a rabbit senses a wolf. When he escorted her to her chamber, she always clutched his arm and walked close, and although she did that with the rest of the men on the Queensguard, with the others it wasn't _every_ time. It sickened him how much satisfaction he derived from that.

She was courteous as ever, and he could see that she'd grown bolder with everyone but him. He'd given her plenty of reason to fear him, after all. He was stricken to think of the way he'd behaved in his cups back when they both belonged to Joffrey. He'd sealed her unease forever the night he left, holding a knife to her throat and stealing a song from her: a girl barely flowered. Just a few moons past she'd seen him gut three rapers on the Kingsroad, close enough for their blood to spatter her pretty dress and prettier face. She helped him tend to his wounds without a word, until she departed for her bedroll with a "thank you" and a kiss on his burnt cheek. It warmed him just to think of that, although afterwards she stayed well away from him.

Maybe he'd died by the Trident after all; maybe this was some private hell designed just for him. Even if the girl wanted him, which she couldn't, he'd believed he would never be able to have her anyway: she was too highborn. Until this. _It's only a political match... but 'straight away',_ thought Sandor. He replayed the Kingslayer's words in his mind; his heart leapt every time. _She doesn't fear me enough to turn down Winterfell. She'll be my wife, and I'll be the one to give her children: a son to rule the North and maybe even one for my father's tiny keep. _

"You're not needed," he told the guard by her door brusquely. He knocked, wondering if she'd have a maid with her. Since the Grey Death swept the city, skilled servants like handmaids were in short supply, and the minor nobles at court often shared staff now.

Footsteps approached. He felt like a boy on the morning of his name-day, overcome with excitement for a longed-for gift - yet at the same time gnawed by anxiety that he was about to be disappointed. Maybe she'd never had a choice in the first place, and she'd been hoping he would refuse for her, or some other contrivance to make him feel a fool. Then he swallowed, at once eager for a glimpse of the girl he was supposed to wed and apprehensive about what he could say.

A flicker of surprise crossed the girl's face when she saw him. All Sandor could see was creamy skin and auburn curls, and eyes the same liquid blue as lakes in summer. _Somehow, she's mine. _Speech deserted him for a moment, replaced by a score of feeble openings. _They said I'm to marry you_, was rejected instantly.

"Ser Jaime sent a message," he said abruptly.

He thrust the parchment at her. He resisted the urge to take to his heels, cursing Jaime Lannister for making him watch this moment. Sansa thanked him and weighed the note in her hand without opening it.

"Please, come in," she said. Over the years, he'd roared at her never to call him 'ser' or 'my lord'; when she spoke to him, he could see how studiously she avoided appending any title to her words. He was touched that she bothered, because sounding so impolite clearly made her uneasy.

Her little apartment was empty; Sandor realised with a jolt that it meant they'd be alone together.

"I was taking tea," she said timidly. "Would you like to join me?"

Sandor nearly laughed out loud, but this was her world and he would abide by her rules. He eyed the spindly chairs by her breakfast-table wondering how many chairs he could break in a day, and sat down gingerly. The girl conjured a second glass from somewhere and set it in front of him. There was a vogue for herbal teas at court: bland cocktails of boiled weeds and grass that were purported to be calming and healthful, though he'd stuck to his ale and strongwine. He could see dried flowers stewing in the little bird's glass teapot.

She folded herself into the chair opposite, taking care not to trap her skirts underneath her. As she placed the sealed note carefully on the table between them, she met his eyes but said nothing. Warily, he watched her pour. It felt strange to be treated as an equal instead of a guard. She raised her glass to her lips and Sandor hastened to mirror her, his big hand engulfing the delicate little cup. The stuff tasted faintly bitter, like a weak maester's remedy.

"Can you tell me what Ser Jaime has written?" she asked softly as she rested back in her chair. She nodded towards the note.

Sandor hesitated. "Couldn't say, little bird," he said gruffly. "He didn't let me read it."

The girl flashed him a pained smile. "The Lord Regent is a busy man, but only one of his concerns of state involves me." She sighed. "Now he's sent you to deliver his message. Perhaps he didn't tell you exactly what he wrote, but this is a matter I believed to involve _you_, too." A light seemed to come into her eyes, even as her voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. "Does it?"

It hinged on this. She wanted the answer from his lips, not Ser Jaime's hand. He could change his mind here, tell Jaime he took it back. With either answer he could make an utter fool of himself; with the wrong word he could watch her face fall. Only one option gave him a chance of happiness.

"Yes, little bird," he said hoarsely. "It involves me. But only if that's what you want."

Another smile, warmer this time. "Then I suppose we're betrothed now," she said.

"I suppose we are," he said. He leaned back himself until the chair gave an alarming creak.

It was starting to hit him now. Drinking tea with Sansa Stark, just _talking_. This was not the life he'd imagined for himself. He'd never dared. He wanted this more than anything, but he felt compelled to make a concession to gallantry.

"I can tell him no, if you want. He'll find you some lord or a handsome knight;" he fairly spat those words despite himself. "This plan can't have been your idea, little bird."

"No, it wasn't my plan," she admitted. Then she stunned him, placing a hand over his. "But it was my wish. For longer than I can say."

* * *

><p>Organising a wedding proved much easier than Jaime feared. The union of Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane was not to be a grand state affair, so it was held in one of the small septries at the Red Keep. The feast was to be as simple and robust as befit the court in winter, with some two score guests in attendance. The greatest delay came from the tailors, who needed a few day's notice to procure their materials.<p>

Jaime sat at the front with Queen Myrcella. Sansa Stark was led to the altar by King Trystane, resplendent in his sandsilks in the colours of House Martell. The lady herself was a vision in white satin. The simplicity of the gown only seemed to set off her vivid features, and a silver circlet enamelled with white flowers made her look even more like some queen of winter. An industrious servant had found the maiden's cloak she wore when she wed Tyrion. By law, a Lannister cloak might have been more appropriate, but under the circumstances the Stark colours seemed far more fitting.

That Sansa Stark would look radiant on her wedding day was hardly a shock, but it was to Jaime's amazement that the Hound appeared every inch the proud bridegroom. He looked surprisingly comfortable in his finery, standing straight and tall in a black velvet doublet slashed with yellow. Clegane truly was a massive man, closer to seven feet than to six and heavily muscled. _From one extreme to another: between the Hound and my brother, she could make two normal-sized husbands. _With difficulty, Jaime pictured Sansa's wedding to Tyrion. He'd heard about all of that unseemly business with the cloaks. Sandor Clegane would have no problem reaching her shoulders: he towered over his slender bride, though she was a tall woman herself.

The Septon recited the vows, with the Hound and Lady Stark accepting them in turn. King Trystane, still playing the part meant for the bride's father, unfastened her maiden's cloak and stood aside. He was a clever, comely boy of middling height, but next to the Hound, the lord of Seven Kingdoms looked like a callow squire. The only times Jaime had seen him this confident were with a sword in his hand.

Sandor Clegane carried a folded cloak of yellow silk, which he shook out gently to reveal the three dogs of his house. This was meant to be a tender moment in love matches; Jaime saw poor Sansa tremble when the Hound's arms encircled her, though her happy smile never faltered. With his cloak wrapped around the lady's shoulders, he bent deeply to fasten the clasp. It was the work of a moment, but to Jaime's utter astonishment, the Hound turned his head as he drew back, brushing a kiss against his bride's cheek. The girl lowered her head, blushing shyly. Over the queen's head, Jaime shot a look at Lady Tyene, but she was as placid and dispassionate as ever. Jaime supposed she wasn't well enough acquainted with the Hound to find this shocking, so he kept his consternation to himself.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and claim you for my lord and husband," Sansa intoned, her voice ringing out clearly. The pretty flush was still in her cheeks.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," said the Hound, his rough, rasping voice softer than Jaime had ever heard it, "and take you for my lady and wife."

Suddenly, Jaime felt queerly like an intruder. At some imperceptible signal from the septon, they moved closer. A perfunctory peck was all that was needed, and then everyone could get on with the feasting and dancing. Instead, the Hound rested his hands on her waist as he bent down once again, and Sansa rose on tiptoe to cup his cheek, grotesquely scarred as it was. Black and auburn hair mingled on their cheeks like smoke and fire. The kiss was completely chaste, as befit the occasion, but went on rather longer than was entirely necessary.

_It's some sort of sorcery,_ thought Jaime. _There's something about altars and cloaks and vows and candles; it turns them into mummers, if only for an hour or so. _He remembered how Cersei had smiled when she married Robert, when earlier that morning she'd been screaming her devotion to Jaime instead.

Sure enough, the couple smiled idiotically at one another as the septon pronounced them wed. "Gods," Lady Nym murmured to her sister, "can you imagine what the children will look like?" Unbidden, the image of giant Sansas with the Clegane colouring popped into Jaime's head. _Black hair and grey eyes. They'd almost pass for Starks._

* * *

><p>Sansa had to take care not to spill any food on the white satin of her dress. She wanted to keep it for her first banquet at Winterfell, though it would need some alterations to make the bodice less obviously bridal. She liked the cut of it; the skirt reminded her of snowdrops. She liked the circlet too, but would not dare wear one in the North. She knew the price of treason, and in any case, queenship had long since lost its allure. She, like the Lord Regent, suspected that the lords of the North would want to crown her and try again to break with the Iron Throne. Robb had been a leader and a commander; Sansa could only be a figurehead, a battle-cry. She was finished with the game of thrones. She'd been used by greater lords than Robett Glover, and she'd had her fill of puppet strings.<p>

Except for _this _farce. This one had played entirely in her favour.

She'd known for some time that it was the Hound she wanted. She was older now, a woman flowered and widowed, and with hindsight could see what had escaped her as a girl in King's Landing: that there was something more than twisted gallantry behind the Hound's dealings with her. She'd never forget the moment she recognised him in his habit on the Quiet Isle, nor the shock a second later as she realised just what he meant to her. It was instinct that led her to his austere acolyte's cell that evening, when she begged him to join them on the road. It was always instinct with him. He'd come to King's Landing on the promise of a pardon, and she'd hoped he might have come for her too. Finally he was back in her world and this time she could return his feelings, but it seemed he'd put them behind him, along with his bloodied white cloak. She'd even kissed him once when they were on the road, but he'd been so cold and gruff that she thought it displeased him.

Sansa saw him almost every day in the capital, but he drew back every time she reached out to him. She didn't know what her advances could achieve; she didn't quite know what she wanted from him. Some glimmer of his former feelings and boldness would have made her feel less foolish, but instead he'd been shy, even awkward. It was only wise to create a distance between them, given their circumstances, but with Sandor... It was his honesty she valued most. Would it hurt more to know he truly did not care for her, or to learn that he'd finally lied to her with his feigned indifference?

She'd heard all the songs about star-crossed lovers, but none of them told her how much it _hurt_.

Ser Jaime's bargain was better than she had hoped for: the right to refuse his suggestions, and Winterfell if there was one to her liking. The Hound had been her first hope, of course, but she'd thought it was a foolish one when there were like to be plenty of noble younger sons vying for her hand.

Maybe she should have taken more time to think about it, but she'd dreamt of the Hound for so long... Under the table, he took her hand and Sansa put aside her doubts. There were handsomer men, better-spoken, higher-born, nearer her own age, and yet she thought Sandor was the finest man she could think of. Sandor had always protected her, and that was far more important than any of the accomplishments she'd been taught to think mattered. She hoped he'd be gentle with her tonight, and trusted him to try. She was still a maiden, even after marrying Tyrion and her time in the Vale. She'd become intimate with Mya Stone and Randa Royce, whose earthy anecdotes had taught her what to expect; Petyr had taught her more about the lusts of men than she cared to remember.

She'd never seen Sandor quite as merry as tonight. He was engaged in some banter with Ser Jaime, but Sansa only caught the end of it.

"That business with the cloak was enough to put a man off his meat. You're going soft, Clegane."

"I'm as surprised as you," Sandor grinned, and Ser Jaime raised an eyebrow.

Sandor had carried on with his Queensguard duties in the weeks since they were betrothed, but he'd come to see her most evenings. Sansa did not allow him to dismiss the maid or her guard; he'd never kissed her until their wedding, never touched her except for her hand, and their farewells were as tender as they were awkward. He spent most of the time either making faces at her tea or making disparaging comments about the courtiers, both of which made her laugh despite herself. His unselfconscious rudeness was strangely endearing to her, and now that the ice was broken, she found the Hound who came back from the Quiet Isle an easier man to get along with than the angry man-at-arms she'd once known. The strength was still there, but the rage was gone - at least until they found subjects he disliked.

It seemed strange to Sansa: for so long it had seemed that the difference in their births would always keep her and Sandor apart, but instead it had been the factor that brought them together. Sansa knew she was too valuable for the Lannisters to give to another house, as Ser Willas' ill-fated suit had proven. Sandor could never be a threat to them, but if she'd married Ser Willas, their children would have been heirs to Highgarden _and_ Winterfell. Though the Lord Regent only just stopped short of apologising for his interference, Sansa wasn't in the least bit disappointed when the Tyrells stopped calling. Those same Tyrells, who bore the same promises of pleasure barges and puppies, had once framed her for their murder of King Joffrey. They would have seen her lose her head. They could keep their barge.

Calls of "Bed them!" began to ring out and Sandor grinned at her, adjusting the dog-shaped clasp on his cloak. As Sansa smiled back at her husband, she decided she would have the puppies after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

* * *

><p>After the wedding, the preparations began for Lady Stark's return to the North: it would not do for the lord and lady of Winterfell to arrive like paupers. Yet somehow, there was always some minor business that needed attending to before they were quite ready to leave King's Landing: some artisan who needed contracting before they went north, some attendant would resign their service and leave a vacant post; a delayed dress, some plate at the armourer's, a horse would need replacing.<p>

The couple grew anxious to be on their way. But the weeks crept by and the days grew shorter, and after some time a rumour arose that Lady Stark had fallen with child. Queen Myrcella forbade her to travel until after her confinement, to the distress of the lady's bannermen back in the North.

And so they were in King's Landing, not Winterfell, when the Long Night closed in and sank the North under forty feet of snow, the drifts haunted by White Walkers and the walking dead.

But some of the refugees told tales of dragons.


End file.
